In Which Mom Learns How a Vacuum Cleaner Works

I have a lot of yarn. And sadly, the vast majority of it is remnants, little bits and half-skeins of yarn with no purpose.

BUT IT IS WOOL.

You can't just get rid of yarn that is WOOL. And you can't THROW AWAY WOOL. That is a CARDINAL SIN. Seriously. If you pitch acrylic, people frown at you and chastise you for wasting plastic yarn. But if you throw wool away, the ACTUAL POPE comes to YOUR HOUSE and he looks at you all condescendingly and gives you your ONE WAY TICKET TO HELL.*

So I have two big canvas collapsible boxes in my closet. And they are packed so full, the scraps of yarn is piled so high, it doesn't even fit inside the boxes anymore, and it falls down on my head every time I open my closet door or move something. It is a bad situation.

Naturally, I have ignored the problem for many months. Really, I have ignored the problem for years. But tonight, I was wandering through Walmart in search of a flash drive, and I saw storage bags. Not just any bags, they are actually, seriously named MAGIC BAGS.

See, they close. They seal with a double zipper. And they are airtight, and waterproof. And then you take the hose from your vacuum cleaner, and you hold it up to this valve, and you fire up the vacuum, and it pulls all of the air out of the bag so it becomes flat, like a pancake made of storage bag and stuff. Your stuff goes inside the bag all giant, and then it becomes TINY and SKINNY. And then you can put it away and you save all sorts of space!

Needless to say, I bought the magic bags. Because you can't turn down magic.

I arrived home triumphant. I displayed my tiny little flash drive. And then I told Mom about the magic.

"You put your stuff inside, and you close them, and then your stuff is TINY," I explained.

"How?" Mom asked.

"You use your vacuum cleaner. It takes out the air."

Mom looked at me blankly.

"The hose attachment," I clarified. "You put the hose attachment up against this one-way valve in the bag. And then the bag is all tiny."

Mom still looked confused. "But vacuums only go one way," she countered.

And all became clear.

"Mom, vacuums suck."

Mom kept staring.

"See, your vacuum hose sucks out the air. They don't blow, they SUCK."

And realization dawned. And I started laughing hysterically.

"Mom, vacuums suck," I continued. "This conversation blows."

Dad was laughing now, and Mom was beet red and also laughing.

"I thought the hose was like the leaf blower," she laughed. "And I thought, why is she putting dirt into her wool?"

"Leaf blowers blow," I laughed. "It's in the name. Vacuums pull air into them by sucking it and dirt and things into their canisters."

At this point, I was trying to use the words "suck" and "blow" as many times as possible. Dad seemed unable to breathe.

"Don't blog this," Mom begged. "Please don't blog this!"

"Would you prefer me to Tweet it?" I asked. "Or tell Rachael at knit night and Jennifer whenever I see her next?"

(Frankly, I am still laughing. I may never stop.)

*Not being Catholic, I don't know if the Pope does this, but he should.